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Xeňa Stanislavovna Semjonová

I don't know it, the days the way they look.
a beautiful corpse, a young life being rained on from the inside hose we buried

k. feeling sorry for her,
her eyes speckles of black inside the green, or was it?
big orb of beauty,
my mallet charity, we walk.

and so I tell the story of the tambourine being weighted on by the heavy weight of weight.

we turned to walk, to walk n talk.
on the corner of the tall red mountaintop in the ashy innuendo of a heap of clay red,

your head rotates. you're a cymbal, better yet
a heavy weight
w big boppit eyes, inside the hose, the hose that suckled,
and the hose that roamed.

each cathedral has an incense, each hunted room the smell of old animals dry with oud
geraniums fingering the fragrant hull of the molten tulip, its carcass snuffed. is embalmed the inside of it, I huffed
promises unimaginable then I,
I lowered my sword.

your face is a beautiful video of feeling
in the corner, a cymbal
being rained on
from the inside hose, I saw
you body,
your body suffered,
in life I
you're enough.